The possibility of further danger to her was far from encouraging. She had already paid a high enough price for her presence in the tunnel during the suicide bombing. All she wanted to do now was get her memory back, leave the hospital, and get on with her life once she got home. She was still hoping to write her novel. And everything about her life, present and past, seemed more precious to her now, especially her children.

Matthieu showed up halfway through the interview with the police. He said nothing, slipped into the room quietly, and stood silently observing. He had nodded at Carole, and looked serious and concerned as he listened. He had made several phone calls to the intelligence unit that was handling it, and another to the head of the CRS. The current Minister of the Interior had received a call from him the day before. Matthieu wanted both the investigation and her protection handled without slip-up or flaw. He had left no question in anyone's mind that the matter was of the utmost importance to him. He had no need to explain why. Carole Barber was an important visitor to France, and to the Minister of the Interior he admitted that she had been a close personal friend for many years. The minister did not ask him in what guise.

Matthieu stood watching her face as they questioned her, and was surprised to hear how much she did remember, as were they. She was able to recall many details that had eluded her entirely before. This time she didn't mind Matthieu being there. It was comforting to have someone familiar close at hand, and he no longer frightened her. She thought her initial fear of him when he visited her came from the fact that she sensed that he had been important to her, but she had no idea why. Now she knew, and oddly, she remembered more details about their life together than she did about other people and events.

The high points of her time with him were sharply etched in her mind, emerging from the seas that had covered them, and she remembered a million small details as well, important moments, sunny days, torrid nights, tender moments, and the agony she had felt over his not leaving his wife, the arguments they'd had over it. His explanations and excuses stood out in her mind, even their sailboat trip in the South of France. She remembered almost every conversation they'd had while they drifted lazily near Saint Tropez, and his inconsolable sorrow when his daughter had died a year later. Their joint grief and disappointment when she miscarried. The memories of him overwhelmed her, and seemed to drown out all else. She could remember the pain he had caused her as though it were yesterday, and the day she had left France. She had given up all hope of a life with him by then. Knowing all that, it was odd being in a room with him now. Not frightening, but unsettling. He had an austere, unhappy look about him, which was what had seemed ominous to her at first, but now that she recalled their history, his somber air was familiar to her. He didn't look like a happy man, and seemed tormented by his own memories of the time they'd shared. He had wanted to apologize to her for years, and now fate had given him that chance.

Carole looked exhausted when the police and officials left her room. Matthieu sat down next to her, and without inquiring first, he handed her a mug of tea. She looked gratefully at him and smiled. She was almost too tired to lift it to her lips. He saw her hand shake and held the cup for her. The nurse was still outside the room, chatting with the two CRS guards. The protests of the hospital about their machine guns had been overridden. Carole's protection was paramount and took precedence over hospital rules. The machine guns stayed. Carole had seen them herself when she took a walk down the corridor with her nurse, before the interrogation unit arrived to debrief her. She had been shocked to see their weapons, and yet reassured at the same time. Like Matthieu's presence next to her, it seemed both a curse and a blessing.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly, and she nodded, as she sipped the tea he held for her. She was shaking all over.

It had been an upsetting morning, but less so than the day before, when the boy with the knife entered her room. It was an event and a sensation she knew she would never forget. She had been certain she was going to die, even more than when she was flying through the tunnel. This was far more personal, and specifically meant to harm her, like a missile aimed straight at her. When she thought of it, she was still frightened. Looking at Matthieu calmed her. He seemed very gentle as he sat there. There was a kind side to him she had not forgotten. It was in full evidence as he sat beside her bed, and his love for her shone in his eyes. She wasn't sure if it was the memory of it for him, or a fire that had never gone out, and she had no desire to ask him. Some doors were best left closed forever. What lay behind that door was too painful for both of them, or at least that was what she thought. He had given her no insights into the present, only the past, which was enough for her.

“I'm okay,” she breathed with a sigh, as she laid her head back on the pillow and met his eyes. “That was hard,” she said, referring to the investigation, and he nodded.

“You did very well.” He had been proud of her. Carole had stayed calm, clear, and made every effort to pull every detail from her shattered memory bank. She had been impressive, which did not surprise him. She had always been a remarkable woman. She had also been extraordinary to him when his daughter died, and at a million other times, and never failed him in any way, as he had her. He knew it all too well, and had played it over countless times in his mind in the years since. He had been haunted by her face, her voice, her touch, for fifteen years, and now he was sitting next to her. It was almost too strange to believe.

“Did you talk to them first?” Carole was curious. The police had been kind and respectful to her, while pressing her relentlessly for every possible detail. But the way they had handled her seemed unusually gentle and respectful, and she suspected that he was responsible for it.

“I called the Minister of the Interior last night.” Ultimately, he was in charge of the investigation, and responsible for how it was handled, and its eventual success. It was the same job Matthieu had had when they met.

“Thank you,” she said, looking at him gratefully. They could have run roughshod over her, which was more their standard style, but they hadn't. They had worn kid gloves in how they handled it, thanks to him. “Do you miss your old job?” It seemed natural to her that he would. He had had so much power, the most powerful man in France. It would be hard for anyone to give that up, particularly a man. He had thrived on it when she knew him, and was very hands-on in how he handled it, which was why he could never have left. He felt as though the well-being of his country was in his care at all times. The country that he loved. “Ma patrie,” as he had so often said to her, burning with his passion for both his homeland and its people. It was unlikely that had changed, even if he had retired.

“Sometimes,” he said honestly. “Responsibility of that kind is hard to give up. It's like love, it doesn't stop, even if it changes address. But times are different now. It's a harder job today, it's not as clean. Terrorism has changed many things, in all countries. No leader has an easy time of it now. It was simpler when I was in government. You knew who the bad guys were. Now they have no face, and you don't see them until after the damage is done, like what happened to you. It is harder to protect the country and the people. Everyone is more disillusioned, and some are very bitter. It's difficult to be a hero. People are angry at everyone, not only their enemies, but their leaders.” He said it with a sigh. “I don't envy men in government today, but yes, I miss it.” He gave her one of his rare smiles. “What man wouldn't? It was a lot of fun.”

“I remember how much you loved it,” she said with a misty smile in response. “You worked crazy hours, and got calls all night long.” It was the way he wanted it. He wanted to know every detail of what was happening at all times. It had been an obsession with him.

And that morning he had stood in the room, hovering over the investigation, as though he were still in charge. Sometimes he forgot that he no longer was. And he was still deeply respected by the public and the men who had taken over his job. He took frequent stands on political issues, and was often quoted in the papers. They had called him several days before about his views on the tunnel attack and how the matter was being handled. He had been diplomatic, which was not always the case with him. When he was upset by something, or critical of the government, he did not mince words, and never had.

“France has always been my first love,” he responded. “Until you,” he added softly. But she wasn't sure that was true, or had ever been. As she saw it, she had been third in line, after his country and his marriage.

“Why did you retire?” Carole asked him quietly, and reached over for her tea again. This time she held the mug herself. She was feeling better and calmer again. The questioning had rattled her, but she was finally settling down. He could see it too.

“I thought it was time. I served my country for a long time. I had done my job. My term was over, the government changed. I had some health problems, which were probably work related. I'm fine now. I missed it terribly at first, and I've been offered some minor posts since, as a token gesture. I don't want that. I don't want a consolation prize. I had what I wanted. I thought it was time to give it up. And I enjoy practicing law. I've been asked several times to become a magistrate, a judge, but I would find that boring. It's more fun to be a lawyer than a judge. For me anyway. Although I'm planning to retire from that this year too.”